


Drawing

by nothingwrongwiththerain



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Some Fluff, Steve and Natasha are an excellent brotp, Steve could use a hug, and, establishing said relationship, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingwrongwiththerain/pseuds/nothingwrongwiththerain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky wouldn’t be the only one dealing with memories, painful reminders of what has been taken away, what could be lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing

\- Now -

“Why do you draw like that?” Natasha’s curled up on Steve’s couch, peeking over his shoulder. She showed up at his apartment a few hours ago with take out, a regular occurrence following their failed pursuits of the Winter Solider. Steve’s seated on the floor, sketching, because Natasha has terrible taste in shows. The marathon of America’s Next Top Model has been going for hours. 

“What?” Steve glanced back at the red hair brushing his shoulder. For the last week, they’ve been run ragged in Italy, tracking a rumor. Steve was tired; super solider serum only worked to a point. The combination of mounting tension and no new information from the HYDRA base they wiped off the map plus the jet lag was catching up with him. Three months since the helicarrier, and the days were piling up, testing the limits of Steve’s tolerance for espionage. 

“You hold your pencil differently” Natasha clarified. 

“Oh” Suddenly self-conscious, Steve experimentally tried a few other grips. Didn’t feel right. 

“You hurt your hand?” Steve grinned at the half-finished sketch of Sam midflight. He was willing to bet he could count on one hand the number of people who knew this side of Black Widow. 

“No. Why?”

“I caught my hand in a freight elevator in Kiev, broke some fingers. Had to write like that for a while.”

“Lovely” Steve replied. He frowned, trying to place a nagging feeling of distress in his chest. “I’ve always drawn like this–” 

And he stopped, because he hasn’t. This is a memory he’s actively repressed for some time. A hateful constant, a part of his past reminding him how much he lost whenever he picked up a pencil. 

“Steve?” Natasha’s voice is quiet and loud; she muted the television. Takes a minute to realize he snapped his pencil in half, is holding the broken pieces tightly enough to dig the graphite into his skin. 

“S’nothing” his words are rough, Steve unclenches his fist slowly. 

She doesn’t push the topic, simply resting a hand on his shoulder. Steve is overwhelmingly grateful. If he felt tired before, he’s exhausted now. There’s an ache behind his eyes, present since he made eye contact with Bucky on the causeway, encroaching on unbearable. 

Natasha cranks the volume back up, but Steve’s caught the thread of that memory, like Natasha’s always telling him not to. He can’t maintain the present, can’t bother to pretend 1937 isn’t decades and decades past for him. Reliving the summer he was 17 isn’t difficult at all.

 

\- 1937 - 

Summer heat in New York was a destructive, relentless force. Rippling off the sidewalks, beating the will to live out of sluggish pedestrians, generating an unavoidable haze to suffocate the city. There’s no place to hide, every window is thrown open, fans are pushing currents of warm air around ineffectually. 

Steve and Bucky abandon their homes, the rooms of their respective apartments trap heat and transform into stoves midday. With Bucky’s sisters camped out on the fire escape and Steve’s mom attempting to appreciate her day off from hospital work, the boys set out on their own. 

Coney island was out of the question, they heard about crowds packing the beach, so they head to the park. Steve has his sketchbook and Bucky’s never voiced any discontent with sleeping the summer away in the shade. Their mothers made it abundantly clear they will finish school, and attempts to find work has proved futile. They were seventeen, disastrously poor, bored, and have no pressing interest in finding a different pastime than keeping each other company. 

“Hey Stevie” 

“Yah Buck?” Steve doesn’t look up from his drawing. Bucky hasn’t moved, or opened his eyes. This is how most conversations start, short breaks from a comfortable silence neither is opposed to. They’ve known each other for 5 years, since Bucky’s family moved in a few blocks away. 

“You wanna grab lunch?”  
Steve snorts. Checking his watch, a timepiece barely kept from slipping off his wrist by a worn leather strap, Steve confirms his suspicion: barely half past eleven. They practically just ate, and given the state of things, they won’t eat again till dinner.

“Sure thing,” Steve replied causally “I was thinking the 21 Club, though it’s a bit of a walk. Should I have the car brought around?”

Bucky huffs a self-deprecating chuckle. “And you wonder why you get beat up.”

“Lost your appetite? I’m sure there’s something on the menu to fit your fancy. Lobster? Steak?” Steve smirked as Bucky rolls around in the grass, clutching his stomach. 

“I hate you. So much.”

“No you don’t” Steve said, hoping Bucky would roll back against the tree. Steve spent the last hour shading, working with the shadows and he wasn’t quite finished. Unfortunately for Steve’s drawing, Bucky’s standing up. Steve snapped his sketchbook shut. 

“You’re right,” Bucky said, offering Steve a hand up “I don’t hate you. Much.” 

And Steve is pretty sure Bucky’s smile is about the closest thing to perfect he’s ever seen. Not that it mattered. Not that his sketchbook full of Bucky from every angle wouldn’t have given him away. 

They head back into the maze of concrete and brick in search of lunch with empty pockets. Bucky’s convinced there’s a food stall somewhere with free samples, Steve knows better. At the very least, they can wander in hope of finding a store with air conditioning; pretend to belong till a manager comes sniffing around. 

They don’t move fast, sticking to shadowy alleys in avoidance of the sun and streets full of car exhaust that wreaks havoc with Steve’s asthma. Looping the long way around, Steve realizes too late they’ve ended up in another housing district, one much nicer than theirs. Bucky’s got it in his mind to visit a few girls, pose an invitation for the evening. 

Steve bit back disappointment with a shrug, insisting they can meet up later. 

“Aw, come on Steve,” Bucky’s a few feet away, halfway up the stairs. With the heat punishing everyone indiscriminately, Bucky can blend in with the folks living there. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows, hair a little mussed from his nap in the park, Bucky walks with a casual ease, a confidence Steve’s spent months trying to capture with a pencil. 

“I’ll see you later” Steve assures him, because he will. Stepping away, Steve heads for the end of the block. “You can come over, tell me all about it” 

And with that, Steve made his escape into the darkness cast between buildings. His frustration is there, but he bought some time to bury those feelings down deep. Steve accepted what he wanted awhile back, before he heard of queer bars or read about arrests. Knowing didn’t make things any better. Steve couldn’t quite convince himself what he felt was wrong, but he also recognized one very simple truth: Bucky was off limits. 

Caught up in his own thoughts, Steve didn’t pay attention to the boys he was passing in the alley until he was falling over a leg shot out to trip him. Stumbling, Steve managed to stay on his feet. 

“Watch it,” Steve said, moving past the group of three. 

“Or what, Rogers?” An ugly familiar voice replied, comment punctuated with a rough shove “You gonna do something about it?” 

Steve turned to face them unwillingly. “I don’t have a problem with you, Ray.” 

Except he did. Steve had a huge problem with these boys; regular run in’s with these three for years. He wasn’t sure what he did to start the endless cycle of abuse, but they were rarely dissuaded. Ray, George, and Anderson traveled in a stupid herd and spent a considerable portion of their childhood smacking Steve around. When Bucky moved in, the tables turned considerably. Now beatings were fewer and far between but increasingly worse, as if making up for lost time. 

“What’cha got there, Rogers?” Ray’s eyes were zeroed in on the sketchbook clutched in Steve’s hand. 

“Piss off” Even with his patience worn thin by the heat; Steve knew he chose exactly the wrong words once they left his mouth. Like Ray needed an excuse for violence. Ray’s eyebrows flew up. Steve had half a second to flinch. Then Ray’s fist connected with the side of his head. Knocked sideways, Steve couldn’t regain his balance before another blow connected with his stomach.

“Still can’t throw a punch, can you?” Ray’s voice was teasing and obnoxious and predictable as ever when he shoved harder, sending Steve sprawling. Steve struggled to his feet; dimly aware he’d dropped his sketchbook and George and Anderson were laughing. 

“Neither can you” Steve spat back. And Steve was sent stumbling, nose gushing. Didn’t matter if he was 11 or 17, some things didn’t change. Ray was bigger, had about a hundred pounds on him and Steve was terrible at blocking punches and retaliating. 

In no time at all, Steve was scraping himself back up off the ground, ribs bruised, stomach aching, acutely aware of the split skin below his eye. Panting, Steve grit he teeth, unable to breathe through his blood-clogged nose. There was nothing else for it. Steve stood his ground. Ray stopped, distracted by something on the ground.

Bending down, Ray picked up the thin journal Steve dropped earlier, eyes delighted. Steve felt his heart sink, panic unrelated to physical injury thrumming beneath his skin. 

“Give it back” Steve spoke flatly, afraid of betraying the fear contracting his chest. 

“Finders Keepers” Ray taunted.

“Give it.” What started out as fear hardened to the closest Steve could get to hate. Steve could handle being hit; Ray was an idiot, a bully. Getting beaten up wasn’t a surprising turn of events. But the sketchbook was Steve’s. Not for anyone to see, least of all Ray. 

“Come and get it” 

To say Ray was caught off guard by Steve’s change in tactics would be a gross understatement. Steve didn’t go for a punch, or jump for the journal held high over this head. Steve lunged, grabbed fistfuls of Ray’s shirt, and kneed him violently in the crotch. 

Ray’s eyes bulged and he doubled up, landing heavily on his knees. Steve yanked the sketchbook from Ray’s hand and was immediately, brutally reminded Ray wasn’t alone. Anderson grabbed the back of Steve’s collar, dragging him backwards. A sweaty arm wrapped around Steve’s neck. Minutes blurred together while Steve fought for air, struggles growing weaker as the seconds ticked by. 

An eternity later and Steve was face to face with the street, cheek scraping the rough, warm surface. That, at least, was familiar. Ray crouched down next to Steve. 

“Love the drawings, Rogers” Ray drawled, voice dangerously soft, smacking the side of Steve’s face with his sketchbook. Steve didn’t react, fighting to catch his breath. “Got a little crush, by the look of it.”

Steve managed to get his hands under his shoulders, push his face off the ground a few inches. Lungfulls of air were uneven and burning, throat tight. He can hardly breathe, can’t think straight. All Steve knows is this is bad, he’s made a horrible, horrible mistake and there is no way out. 

“You like drawin’, Rogers?” 

Steve doesn’t answer. Sweat is running down his face, stinging against a bleeding cut. His chest is on fire. What is he supposed to say? There isn’t anything he can say. 

“Shame if you couldn’t…” Ray’s comment doesn’t connect meaningfully until it’s too late. 

Standing up, Ray grinned maliciously and brought the heel of his boot down on Steve’s right hand. There’s a series of tiny crunches, pain ricocheting up Steve’s arm as he bites back a cry, crumpling in to protect his injured hand. 

But Ray’s not finished, not by a long shot, throwing in a few kicks for good measure before having Anderson haul Steve up. Distantly, someone is yelling as Ray bends Steve’s wrist back, further than the normal range of motion. Steve’s struggling, twisting against the grip he’s caught in, escape efforts making things impossibly worse. Ray’s got ahold of his smashed fingers, increasing the pressure incrementally, agonizingly–

Steve’s almost relieved when his wrist breaks. Almost. The audible crack is synched perfectly with lancing pain and his rough shout. And they drop him, smacking his knees to the asphalt, laughing, running off with a purpose Steve doesn’t care to understand because tunnel vision is warping his view, he’s dizzy and hot and cold and holyfuckingshit his wrist hurts like an explosion of glass tearing his arm apart from the inside out–

“Steve? Shit. Fuck. Talk to me, hey, come on…”

There are hands on his shoulders, steadying him, holding him upright. It has to be Bucky. It can only be Bucky. There isn’t anybody else who would drop down next to him, hand reaching for the back of his neck to keep his head from lolling. 

\- Now - 

The TV is droning on in the background, Steve is becoming slowly aware of Natasha shifting in his peripheral. She’s off the couch, picking up dishes and containers of Chinese food he’s developed a fondness for. He catches her keeping an eye on him, soft expression carefully concerned.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Steve would like nothing better than to end the debate getting louder in his head. Its not like he’s hiding some vital piece of information from her. 

Just a story. Another fragment of his past that should have been buried with the rest.

Sharing his past was… challenging. On some level, Steve was still reeling from when he broke down a few unsuccessful missions back and told Natasha about his real relationship with Bucky. He hadn’t realized she already suspected as much and didn’t anticipate her reaction. No shock, no accusation of him being false. Just a sad smile and a light hand on his forearm, grounding him. 

Returning from the kitchen, Natasha flipped though the channels and stopped on an episode of Planet Earth. A flock birds was swirling around, filling the screen. She leaned up against him, uncannily perceptive of what she could get away with. They started using each other as pillows a few weeks ago, when Natasha noticed Steve never slept on flights back. She’d pulled him over to the couch, dropped her head in his lap and nodded off before he could articulate any protest. That closeness was all Steve needed to fall and stay asleep till they hit the tarmac. 

And she didn’t stop. She developed a knack for picking up on his disquiet, when all Steve could do was miss him and having someone close was a relief. That was what he knew, what he missed. Bucky, curled up across from him on the floor, hogging the couch cushions when they were kids. Bucky, tugging him closer when snow was pounding their tiny apartment, combating the cold with body heat. Bucky, sneaking into his tent after the rest of the Howling Commandos (who never cared to begin with) were out. Sleeping alone felt unnatural. A reminder that something was missing. Wrong. 

On the screen, a black and blue bird puffed up ridiculously, hopping around. Natasha was warm, head resting on the side of his shoulder. Steve wanted to pass out, to give in to his weariness. But sleep wasn’t an option, while he kept thinking about the ways things played out, things Bucky told him much later. 

This was second hand information he dragged out of Bucky in the 40s. A curiosity Steve harbored and caved in to asking. Sometime in the middle of January, Steve was sick and Bucky had the day off because of ice. Steve shivering, exhausted and unable to sleep was not without precedent; Bucky had years of experience distracting him. 

When Steve asked what happened, between afternoon and evening, how he got the sketchbook back, Bucky was quiet for a few moments before giving in. ‘You would want to know’ he’d said, settling in beside the mess of blankets Steve was wrapped in on the couch. Steve remembered trying to backtrack, but Bucky laughed. ‘It’s not some big secret, Stevie’ he said, ‘You might as well know’. 

\- 1937 - 

Steve is white as a sheet. The blood splattered and smeared beneath his nose was shocking contrast to how incredibly pale he’d gone. Bucky crouched in front of Steve, kicking himself for not knowing, intrinsically, Steve would manage to find trouble if Bucky left him alone for ten minutes. Bucky was going to kill the other boys, he was already plotting Ray’s untimely demise in the back of his mind, but for now all his attention was on Steve. 

“Hey, don’t do this to me pal, talk to me,” Bucky’s rambling, holding Steve as gently as possible because he can’t tell where, exactly, Steve is hurting beyond the painfully obvious. 

The seconds following Bucky rounding the corner are playing on a loop in his mind. Ray twisting Steve’s arm at an unnatural angle. Steve looking trapped and powerless and out of reach. 

Steve is catching his breath, blinking studiously. Bucky can’t help but continue his monologue because he’s nervous and wants Steve to keep looking at him and needs Steve to answer him. Eventually Steve winces, drawing his broken wrist close to his chest, air hissing between his teeth. 

“You lied” Steve croaked, leaning heavily into the hand Bucky’s placed on his shoulder. 

“I lied?” Bucky repeats, confused. 

“This fucking hurts. When you broke your ankle, you said it didn’t hurt that bad.”

Bucky laughed weakly. “Don’t think this is the same”

“Probably not” Steve murmured, wincing again. “Is my…did they take…” Steve trailed off, catching his incriminating stream of words too late. 

“Take what?” Bucky glances around, back to Steve who’s bloody and battered, and abruptly makes the connection between what is missing and Steve’s broken wrist. “They took your sketchbook” Bucky’s not asking. His eyes are dark, voice a low growl. 

“S’nothing.” Steve said, dull panic fluttering in his throat. Steve would like to back track, but conflicting interests are tripping over each other in his mind. 

“Damnit Steve” Bucky’s eyebrows pinch together. He’s aching to explain that it isn’t nothing, that nobody should have to deal with this. He hates them for what they’ve done, almost as much as he loves Steve for not giving up or staying down or harboring the kind of rage Bucky’s got kindling inside him. He loves Steve more than that too, and that’s his problem. 

But he can’t put it into words, so he grips Steve a little tighter and tries to figure out how he can get Steve on his feet without hurting him more. He settles for hooking an arm under his shoulder, taking as much of Steve’s weight as Steve will let him. They hobble off in the direction of home, not talking much as Steve is a bit unsteady and Bucky is seething. 

Back at the apartment, Steve’s mother greets them at the door, having watched their progress down the street. Bucky hangs around as long as he can be useful. Dabbing at the torn skin beneath Steve’s eye, rinsing towels in the sink is old hat for Bucky. He’s not a fan of the extra step required today, which involved holding Steve still for the few seconds Steve’s mom worked to figure out how the bone broke. Stressful all around. Bucky felt Steve shaking under his touch, saw how bright and glassy his eyes got, heard the stutter stop of his breathing. His mom tried to be quick, but the look Steve gave Bucky – like Bucky was hurting him – was already burned into his mind. 

Apparently it was a clean break, nothing special beyond a splint. Steve’s fingers were another story; Bucky hadn’t established the depth of his hate for Ray until Steve admitted Ray stomped on his hand. If Steve’s mom was worried, she did an excellent job of hiding it. Mrs. Rogers was poised and pragmatic from the day Bucky met her. It meant the world to Bucky that she didn’t blame Steve for these encounters, didn’t chastise his behavior. Just reminded him to be careful from time to time. 

Leaving Steve propped up at the table, ice melting on his broken hand, Bucky headed down the stairs in a hurry. There were places to visit, conversations to have with people who could find Ray and his cronies. No one would cover for Ray; he wasn’t worth protecting if James Buchannan is asking politely. 

The afternoon winds down, the heat does not. Evening had begun to stake a claim when Bucky arrived at a boarded up bar, in a neighborhood Bucky wouldn’t be worried to walk though, but wouldn’t mind walking around. Glass from broken streetlamps and rock-shattered windows lace the sidewalk and street, no car has rolled down this way in a while. The sidewalks are choked with trash and evicted belongings families couldn’t carry to shantytowns. The signs of despair have a melancholy familiarity – well represented in New York. 

Trying the handle of the paint chipped red door, Bucky half expects it to be locked. It isn’t. Ray has made no effort to put up a barrier between them. By now, word has to have reached Ray that Bucky is looking for him. Not locking the door means one of two things: Bucky’s got the wrong place, or Ray is feeling cocky. Bucky’s not sure which he prefers. 

Heading in, Bucky takes a few steps and stops, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. There’s a smattering of tables and chairs standing between the bar on this right and the stage set into the far wall. The place is relatively small, could be crowded easily by more than twenty or thirty people. Closer to the stage, larger and more study tables wait for dinner and the show that used to grace the stage. Sunlight filtered through windows lined with newspaper, a few streams of light have captured swirling layers of dust Bucky upset by opening the door. 

“Wondered when you’d stop by, Barnes” Bucky finds the outline of Ray poured into an armchair on the stage, utterly indifferent to Bucky approaching. 

“Always pegged you for a thief, Ray” Bucky said casually, stopping a few tables back from the stage “But never suicidal.”

“No death wish here.” Ray said languidly. Bucky could just make out Ray’s features in the dark, framed by loose curls. Being inside was hot, possibly worse than outside.

“Then hand it over” Bucky said, unmoving. While he was itching for a fight, Bucky had reached something of an understanding concerning Ray over the years. Yes, Ray was stupid and a jerk but he was street smart as well. Ray chose Steve as a target because he could win; he traveled around with two goons (who were almost certainly hiding in a back room) so he could be a loud mouth without facing the consequences. 

Unless Ray was delusional, if he wanted to keep the sketchbook, he should have locked the door. Likewise, if Ray wanted to win a fight, he should have jumped Bucky when he walked in. The last available option was that Ray did not want to fight, or keep the sketchbook. So Bucky asked for it back. 

“Not yet,” Ray intoned, putting up his hands to ward off Bucky’s demand “I’ve got a public service to do first. Not safe to have people like Rogers wandering around.”

“Yah, Steve’s a real menace” Bucky replied, perplexed. 

“They get arrested all the time”

“Asthmatics?” Bucky ventured dryly. 

“Queers” Ray said, absently flicking through the pages of Steve’s sketchbook, which had materialized in his hands. 

“Never heard that one before” Bucky said, sighing to release some tension in his chest. Boys had called Steve a fairy for years. Steve blushed and wordlessly shrugged it off, leaving Bucky wondering things he shouldn’t. An unasked question Bucky didn’t have the nerve to vocalize. 

“Maybe you should have listened.”

“You’re all talk Ray,” Bucky crossed his arms, cracked his neck. “I’m not going to ask again.” 

“Its not talk” Ray said, sneering and sitting up in the chair. “Just a fact, plain and simple. You covering up for him, Barnes? You even aware of his little fantasy?” With that, Ray tossed the thin leather journal off the stage. The book hit the tile with a soft thump, upsetting recently settled dust. “See for yourself.”

Bucky picked it up, tucking the little book against his chest, inside a pocket. Ray was talking nonsense, he was a manipulative asshole and he had Bucky’s attention in a way Bucky despised. Ray was lying, obviously, pushing an agenda to distract him. It was nothing. Ray couldn’t know he was taunting him with a baseless hope Bucky rarely acknowledged.

“Oh Barnes,” Ray said, clearly amused “You’re not as smart as people think you are.”

Bucky didn’t like the direction this conversation was headed. Ray was hitting close to home, if he reacted to this – well, Bucky wasn’t sure what it would prove. Something. 

Ray was talking again. “Rogers follows you around every day and you never stopped to think? That pathetic little pervert isn’t worth protecting. And besides,” Ray relaxed, leaning back “Wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea. I know – hell, we’ve fought plenty – you’re not like that.” Ray’s contempt was thick “But you can’t be seen with people like that” 

Bucky wondered if this was how Steve felt during an asthma attack. Like there wasn’t enough breathable air in the room. He should speak up, contradict Ray. Instead, Bucky stood, statue silent, an unwilling audience during a long uncomfortable pause. 

“You’re welcome” Ray said. 

“You’re wrong” Bucky said quietly, having located his voice. Bucky wasn’t convinced of his words, but he needed Ray to be. This kind of rumor would spread like wildfire if Ray had anything to back it up. Might not stick. Would probably fade in a week. Not anything Bucky wanted to put Steve through. 

Ray smirked “Maybe, maybe not.” Standing, he hopped off the stage and stood across the table from Bucky. Pulling them from his pocket, Ray tapped a few sheets with torn edges against the tabletop. He pulled out a chair, legs scratching the floor in complaint before he took a seat. Placing his stack of charcoal sketches on the table, Ray tapped a finger on the upside down drawings. “You going to risk finding out?” 

And Bucky had nothing left to say. If Steve wanted to tell him something, that was Steve’s choice, not Ray’s. Without a second glance at the drawings, Bucky grabbed the lip of the table and shoved the table into Ray with a short jerk. 

Ray tipped off his chair, hitting the floor and landing on his ass. Grabbing the back legs of the table, Bucky tipped the wooden frame up on its front legs and dropped the edge squarely on Ray, like a mousetrap snapping down on unwanted vermin. The heavy wood landed on Ray’s in the chest, forcing all his breath out and cracking a few ribs in the process. Kicking his chair aside, Bucky rounded the table, running his hand along the edge to keep Ray pinned. Ray was stuck, gasping, features contorted. Good. 

The crash brought George and Anderson running from the back, but they paused at the door to take in the scene. 

“Tell them to back off Ray” Bucky called out, loud enough for Ray’s idiotic friends to hear. 

“Fuck you” Ray spluttered. Bucky shrugged and added pressure to the sideways table until Ray screamed. The other boys hesitated, eyes flickering between their incapacitated leader and Bucky’s calm. 

“Fine,” Ray choked out, flinching as Bucky reached down to snag the sketches Ray ripped from Steve’s book “Go.” 

“Actually” Bucky said conversationally, “I’m not finished yet” Ray opened his mouth and abruptly shut it at the telltale click of knife unfolding and locked. “Now, this seems a little extreme” Bucky continued, rubbing his chin. “But I don’t think I have much of a choice, what with this…” Bucky waved his hand “Whatever it is you think you know”

“I don’t know anything,” Ray said, trying to shake his head while pinned to the floor. 

“But you think you do,” Bucky emphasized, turning the blade back and forth, catching the light. “So really, I have a very simple question” Bucky paused, looking from his knife to Ray’s horrified expression “Are these all the drawings? And before you answer” Bucky said, cutting Ray off “I want you to think. Hard. About how much you value your pathetic, perverted life.”

Ray swallowed. Bucky smiled pleasantly, unconcerned with George and Anderson, who hadn’t so much as twitched since he pulled the knife. 

“That’s all” Ray said, blubbering, “I swear” 

“Alright” Bucky said, folding the knife back up and pocketing it. “Thank you,” Bucky stood up “I’ll see myself out” 

The moment the door to the bar swung shut behind him, Bucky broke into a sprint. Bucky didn’t know how Ray would react to being threatened after he had time to think, and he wasn’t planning to find out. Bucky took off, the one person crazy enough to be running with the temperature inching down from the 100s.

\- Now -

Steve is not crying. He isn’t. The sky has faded from slate grey to coal dust outside the window. TV is still on. Natasha may or may not be asleep. He made assumptions in the past, and was usually wrong. The room felt cold, but the memories he was dredging up are stifling, so it could just be him. 

He was done remembering, he didn’t want to go there. This is old news, ancient history, hell, he was high school at the time. Nobody left to think about this but him. And that was the strange part. Other people – most people – have ways to confirm their lives. They can share stories their friends swear really happened, laugh about meaningless details with their families. 

Here he is. Steve could be distorting the past without realizing it, with no one to step in and correct him. If he never told anyone, would these events cease to exist? There’s only one person on the planet who can validate almost every memory Steve has. 

But Steve can’t find him. 

Now he is crying, and he’s trying to be quiet and not move but Natasha is right there and it doesn’t take a super-spy-master-assassin to realize the shoulder she’s sleeping on is shaking. 

“Hey” Her voice was quiet in his ear, he can’t think of what to tell her. Steve opened his mouth to say something, anything. She shushed him, getting up on her knees so she can reach around and hug him, bringing his face to her shoulder. Steve doesn’t like crying, used to figure Captain America should be able to deal with whatever was thrown at him, solider on without complaint. But when Captain America lost a valuable member of his team on that train, an expert sniper Steve Rogers lost more than that – he lost everything. 

They’d been together since 1937, since that ferociously hot summer when Steve was convinced his life was about to fall apart instead of miraculously coming together. This is the furthest thing from fair Steve’s ever been forced to endure, and he’s dealt with a lot of shit. To have this memory, a moment so perfect and clear, tearing him apart. He’s living with the worst kind of paradox, wanting to forget and refusing to let go. 

So he buries his face in Natasha’s shoulder and lets the memories run rampant, gives in. He’s 17, hiding on the roof, out of his mind with worry, waiting and waiting and waiting for Bucky to come back. 

\- 1937 - 

Steve struggled his way up onto the roof, reaching the top of the stairs as the sun connected with the horizon. Twilight heat was manageable compared to midday, no longer scorching at least. Steve leans against the waist high edge encircling the rooftop, taking in the stretch of cityscape. Buildings crowd together and loom over each other, obscuring Steve’s view after a few blocks. He’s itching for a pencil, but his impulse to capture the scene is overwhelmed out by the rush of other problems drawing is connected to. 

Currently, he can’t hold a pencil, there’s no point in trying when he can barely make a fist. Regaining his ability to sketch is the very last worry on Steve’s list right now. Top three are revolving around and around in his head, making him dizzy. Ray having his sketchbook, Bucky catching up to Ray and Bucky looking through said sketchbook is a tangle of interlocking hope and fear. Hence his escape to the roof. If anything bad came of this, if Bucky found out, Steve didn’t want to wait to find out. He doubted Bucky would hit him in front of his mom, but Steve couldn’t be sure – people really hated queers, they didn’t need a reason for it.

Swallowing hard, Steve grows steadily more frustrated that he can’t catch his breath. He made it up to the roof ten minutes ago; enough time has passed to get control. His body has decided to override that, heartbeat thwacking urgently off his ribs, getting distracting. Doctors repeatedly tell him not to tax himself, not to push himself and (increasingly relevant) not to put himself in stressful situations. Steve’s emotions are tied straight to his erratic, unreliable heart. 

He’s leaning against the edge, staring at the ground several stories below and sipping on air in an unsuccessful attempt to calm his racing heart rate, when the door slams open. The door leading up to the roof is old and hardly fits the frame, so it’s impossible not to slam it open, but Steve flinches anyways, assuming the worst. 

Bucky strides out, footsteps unusually loud as he closes the distance between them. Steve would like to speak up, but he can’t. The dying sunlight has put a slant on the roof, casting lazy shadows and stretching their silhouettes out. Steve is oddly reminded of the morning – was it really this morning? – when he traced tree cast shadows in the park. 

Moving calmly across the roof, Bucky pulls up next to Steve and stops, staring. Steve’s closing in on desperate, searching Bucky’s face for some kind of reaction. Bucky looks worried. No, concerned. He’s got the same expression Steve’s seen every time Bucky finds him limping home from a fight he had no chance of winning, every time Steve’s too sick to sit up on his own, to do anything but cough. 

“Steve?” Bucky says his name like a question, like Steve has all the answers.

Steve shakes his head, eyes wide, starting to wheeze. He can’t figure out what Bucky is waiting for, when the yelling is going to start or worse, if Bucky is going tell him to leave him alone and get up and walk away and this is his fault and– 

“Hey, whoa” Bucky’s moving around to stand in front of him, putting his hands on Steve shoulders when Steve starts to double up. “I’m sorry – I mean,” Bucky’s eyes are pleading and Steve’s just confused. What does Bucky have to apologize for? Air is forcing its way in and out of Steve’s lungs of its own accord, for the moment it sounds worse than it is. 

“I’m sorry that they took your sketch book – I got it back” He tugs the thin journal out of his picket, presses it into Steve’s good hand. “I didn’t look, or anything, cause…I mean, it’s yours and I know what Ray said and I’m probably just being stupid” Bucky sounds miserable, won’t make eye contact with Steve for more than a second. 

“But if, if I’m not then, maybe” Bucky stops, taking a deep breath of his own “It’s always been you Steve. I don’t care what that makes me. I…I thought you should know, if that matters, or–” And in a rush Bucky’s lost his nerve, throwing a fearful glance at Steve, who positive that in this moment, Bucky is the only person in the world. “I get it if you don’t, um, want me?” Bucky’s voice strained and Steve, who is still out of breath and can’t form words yet, shakes his head violently. 

“Yah, okay” Bucky chokes on the words, misinterpreting the one thing Steve has never needed anyone to understand more “I’m sorry. You don’t have to, I’ll leave you alone–”

That’s it. Steve can’t handle Bucky’s expression of contained grief. Grabbing Bucky’s arm before he can turn away, Steve shoves his sketchbook into Bucky’s face. 

“Just…Look…” Steve says between his slowing gasps. Bucky holds the book carefully, like a bomb that might go off at any second. Evening is fading, but the light coloring the sunset is more than enough. Opening Steve’s sketchbook, Bucky flips through the drawings. He’s seen bits and pieces of course, all intricate and meticulous, but as it turned out, never the final products. 

A perfect replication of the skyline behind him, with him sitting on the roofs edge. The part; trees, flowers, a path and him, lounging in the shade. A dingy apartment, with him standing at the stove, laughing. The docks – the fire escape – all the usual haunts and one…

One of Bucky sleeping. Drawn so carefully, with so much attention Bucky isn’t surprised Ray took the time to tear the image out. Steve is watching Bucky, tracking his eye and hoping beyond hope that Bucky gets it this time. That Steve’s been watching, caring, and keeping everything to himself for too long. 

By the time Steve has caught his breath, Bucky is suddenly close, has Steve’s face in his hands, bringing their foreheads to touch. Steve’s breath is unsteady on Bucky’s cheek, pupils blown wide. Hesitation born from years of repressing and pretending and leaving this kind of action firmly in the ‘wish category’ burn up when neither of them try to pull away. 

In the who-kissed-who of it all, Bucky and Steve both swore the other leaned in first. A more honest assessment could be made; that they both chose, at that moment, to trust and hope equally. 

Their first kiss didn’t last long. Beneath his fingers, clutching the side of Steve’s neck, Bucky felt Steve’s heart rate take off. He pulled back before Steve had the option of hyperventilating, giddy and impatient and amazed, his own heart pounding thunderously in his ears. Bucky presses up against Steve because he can, because he’s allowed to without question or fear. 

Steve can’t stop smiling. His face hurts from the strain on bruises and scrapes, but he’s never known anything as wonderful and satisfying as kissing Bucky. Bucky’s grinning right back, thumb brushing Steve’s jaw, other hand lightly placed above Steve’s splint to keep from jostling his wrist. 

“What’cha thinking about, punk?” Bucky asked. 

“That we could have been doing this sooner” Steve said, almost immediately regretting his comment. Maybe Bucky hadn’t always felt like this, maybe Steve was pushing it–

“You think too much Stevie” Bucky said, tipping Steve’s chin up “Its always been about you”. 

\- Now -

Steve wasn’t sure how long they sat on the floor, Natasha holding onto him. He didn’t notice her turn the TV off, but the room is utterly silent save for his occasional hiccup. When Steve become acutely aware of his guilt for crying on her shirt, he decided to disentangle himself. She’s not crushing him, but Steve’s slipping from upset to embarrassed, needs a little more space. 

She sits back on her knees, and clicks on a lamp. Steve blinks a few times, eyes damp. Natasha doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Her and Sam made it clear Steve can share what he wants, when he can. According to Steve’s interpretation of this model, he was planning on not sharing a single thing that wasn’t necessary to tracking Bucky. The harder they looked, the more Steve was reminded, the more inconsequential stories he was telling and now Natasha and Sam knew more about his life than the people who ran surveillance at SHEILD. 

“Was thinking about when we figured out…stuff,” Steve croaks, horribly vague and hoping Natasha can fill in the blank. “Wasn’t on purpose” 

She quirks a smile at that. Steve sniffs, unbending his cramped legs. “I used to draw him” he explained “and he saw my sketches, kind of on accident. Some guys took my drawings. Broke my hand. Bucky got ‘em back.” 

Natasha nods, listening attentively. Unlike Sam, Natasha doesn’t have follow up questions. She’s content with what Steve gives her.

“Just worried that he won’t, uh, remember” Steve says, fighting with the pressure behind his eyes, leaning his head back to rest on the couch. “If I still, um, matter.”

“You matter, Steve” Natasha isn’t telling him off, merely offering a truth. 

“Okay” Steve deflates, all the distress and tension holding him up drains out of him; making space for an aching bone tired that follows him around. “okay” 

“Come on” She is up, tugging at him to join her on the couch. Steve doesn’t put up any resistance, climbing after her and allowing himself to be situated among pillows and her slender frame. There’s room for both of them because she talked him into going to IKEA between saving New York and this disaster. She spent more of his money than was strictly necessary, but Steve liked the couch and liked the idea of owning things. 

Sprawled out on his couch, Steve is out in under a minute. Natasha stays awake for three more, waiting for Steve’s breathing to even out. On the floor, unlit by a cloud-splattered sky, in front of the television lies a sketchbook. The original is behind glass somewhere, prized by a collector. Steve’s latest assortment of sketches reflect the months since he picked up a pencil again, mostly done from memory. The Avengers take up a few pages; Bruce at a lab table, Hawkeye up on a shelf, Pepper silencing Tony with a look. More recently, Natasha curled up with a book, Sam fixing his wings. And in between the faces he’s let people see, many more charcoal covered pages. All of them filled with the same drawings that got Steve into this mess in the first place.


End file.
